The Case of the Shadowman
by Luscinnia
Summary: A new case forces Lestrade to face an event from his past not so long ago he'd rather have forgotten. He gets help by his second in command, who has to ask herself the question how far trust and loyalty reaches and how far she is willing to go.
1. 1: Lestrade

Initial Crime Report

-

Venue: Gunfire with lethal consequence, Case No. #014- GF018A- SCD1  
Date of Incident: -/02/2014

Time of Incident: approx. 9:30 a.m.

-

Brief description of incident:

Fatal inujury due to gunshot to the head, close range, single shot. Ambulance called 2 minutes after inital incident. Death of victim confirmed at 9:50.

-  
Person to be excluded

Name: /  
Date of Birth:

Address:

Police records

Police Incident No. #014- GF018A- SCD1  
Police Officer name and collar No. PC Mills 873CP (R/o)

-

Witnesses (Name and Contact Number)  
Edith Warne - 7946 0587  
James Afton - 7946 1703  
Christina Perkate - 7946 1156

Amanda Knell - 7946 7049


	2. 2: Donovan

Police Report 

Case No. #014- GF018A- SCD1  
Southwark Police Station

Offence: Homicide

Victim: Alistair Knell

Location: 124 Weston St, London SE1 4XE

Date: -/02/2014  
Time: around 9:30 a.m.

Means: severe head trauma

Weapon: handgun, .22

Details:  
Reporting officer arrived at 124 Weston St. at approx. 9:35 a.m., in response to a reported call from the next door neighbour, Mrs. Edith Warne, née Byam. Mrs. Warne heard a single gunshot coming from her neighbours front door. She stated to have heard two male voices talking with each other a few minutes before the shot.

Ambulance and police were called (see archived records of calls: 0124 -IR21 - FR).

R/o stayed at the scene and awaited arrival of requested detectives. Paramedics confirmed decease of Mr. Alistair Knell on site at approx. 9:50 a.m.

Case was turned over to Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard. On orders of DS Sally Donovan, R/o left the site for witness questioning.

Two further witnesses of the gunshot - Mr. James Afton and Mrs. Christina Perkate. Neither of them was able to confirm the preceding brief conversation between victim and probable offender. Mrs. Amanda Knell yet to be questioned. (see attachement 014- GF018A - A.2).

[signatures of DI Lestrade, DS Donovan and PC Mills]


	3. 3: Lestrade

Morning washed slowly over London with cold winter light and a sun that would be in hiding behind clouds for the rest of the day. One of those in-between days that struggled to decide if they'd stick to grey or a strange colourless sky that was even more depressing than the constant rain.

He usually was up early, preparing tea for his wife and himself. They had abandoned coffee a few years ago when Amanda got pregnant with their first baby. Tea for breakfast somehow got stuck in their habits.  
He checked his phone, watched the news on the telly. Always good to be up to date. His wife was having a shower. It was 9 in the morning.  
He wouldn't have to go to work today and they made plans to visit the British Museum since the kids would stay at the grandparents house over the week. He already missed them. The house was too quiet without their footsteps on the stairs and the ongoing - yelled and shouted - questions concerning the whereabouts of a variety of items; toys mostly.

The doorbell rang. Once, twice.  
Amanda shouted: "I'll get it." And her footsteps could be heard as she hurried down the stairs. Alistair smiled to himself and put his phone aside. The thing had been quiet and he appreciated it. He had feared certain messages but they faded, got less and finally stopped when he didn't answer them anymore. He had been out of his depth, not aware of the trouble he really got himself into.  
He allowed himself the false feeling of "it" being nothing more than a strange dream he had. Something along the lines of a modernised Victorian Horror Story. Edgar Allan Poe-esque.  
"Als? There is someone at the door for you." Amanda said as she approached him in the kitchen. "He's got a letter for you."  
Alistair sighed and nodded. "Right. Won't take too long." He drained his mug and walked to the door, taking his time.

Later Amanda would put on record that above everything else she wished she would have told her husband how much she loved him in the second before he left the kitchen. It was the last glimpse she would get of him alive.

"What is it, mate?" Alistair looked at the man in front of him. He appeared to be nervous. Maybe new to the job?  
"I got a message for you." The envelope was shoved into Alistair's hands and he blinked at it and made a few steps back to put it on the small side table in the hallway, noting with a shake of the head that one of the kids put a single sock on top of it. He turned back to the door, assuming he would need to sign something to confirm the receipt of the letter.

"Listen man, I'm sorry." The delivery guy sounded desperate and it took Alistair some moments to realise what was wrong. "Man, I owe him and you owe him and I don't want to do this, but I have to. You know it, don't you? He sent you messages, didn't he? Orders, demands… He is pissed off with you, man." He twitched and shuffled his feet on the edge to snap. Alistair immediately knew what the talk was about. The strange dreams became reality again. No way to escape or to ignore it away. The muzzle of the gun wasn't to be clicked away or brushed off with a single movement of his hand. "Oh god…" he muttered and those were the last words he spoke. If he could have this last thought; if he would be allowed to have a last second he would probably regret that he didn't tell his wife this morning how beautiful she always had been for him, how much he loved her and how proud he was to be her husband and the father of her children. Indeed his last thought were the two words he managed to mutter before he dropped to the ground.

The shot was surprisingly quiet. Not quiet enough to pass unnoticed.

"Was that a gun?" Edith grew a habit to speak to her budgies since her husband passed away a few years ago. "Can't have been one, can it?" The birds chirped but Edith didn't find the reply very satisfying instead she did something remarkable. She acted against her usual manner and immediately called the police.  
This one call that got the ball rolling, set the machinery in motion.

By the time Police Constable and responding officer Mills arrived at the scene the gunman had already fled and took the envelope with him. Mrs. Knell was standing in the middle of the hallway, tea dripping to the floor from her tilted mug and burning her bare feet without her noticing.  
It didn't need the paramedic to tell her or PC Mills to lead her away or Mrs. Warne and her o-shaped mouth from next door to confirm what she saw, what was in front of her.  
In a second all she knew cracked, burst, shattered.

In a second she had been made a widow and she didn't understand. 

It was 9:55 a.m. 


	4. 4: Donovan

I observed the street while the ambulance drove off. The slow pace of the vehicle and the almost lazy way the driver turned the car reminded me of a defeated animal.  
They had been too late, but going by what I saw, there wouldn't have been a single chance anyway. Not even a miracle could have saved the man.  
His wife, his widow, was sitting in the police car behind me. She hadn't shed a single tear yet and neither did she speak a single word. I couldn't blame her for it.  
"Do you need anything, Ma'am?" I looked at her but she just shook her head. I knew it wouldn't take long now until it would have sunken in.

"Donovan!" Lestrade's vibrant baritone resounded from the house wall opposite. A wonder no one else saw anything but Mills wasn't done with the door-to-door by now and there was still some hoping. "Coming!" I informed him and turned around to the unlucky Mrs. Knell. "If you need anything or if anything springs to your mind, don't hesitate to talk to my colleagues. I'll be right back with you, okay?" She just stared ahead and I put my hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. Mrs. Knell nodded and I could feel her eyes following me to what had been her home. The home of her happy little family and now it was transformed to the scene that could have come straight out of a horror film.

"Sir?" I announced my appearance but Lestrade had already seen me and was now stepping into the hallway, minding the blotches of tea and blood. "Give me." he ordered and I provided him with the facts, following the path he took to have a look at the rest of the house.  
"Door-to-door is ongoing but doesn't seem to bring any further results. No one noticed anything out of the ordinary. Next door neighbour claimed to have overheard a brief conversation. She stated to be almost sure she heard two men talking. She was also the one who called 999 when she heard the gunshot. From a first glance the calibre is 22. Preferred by sports marksmen and poachers due to the relative "silence" of the shot. Everything else has yet to be confirmed by forensics. Mrs. Knell still hasn't spoken and none of the other witnesses is able to give a describtion of the suspect. The area has been spaciously closed off but chances are low to get our hands on the absconder."

He nodded. I knew that it was frustratingly little. "How?" he moved through the kitchen, his hands crossed behind his back and taking in what details he could observe. The mobile phone on the kitchen counter, the tea cup, the plates neatly arranged… "It is daylight and the neighbourhood isn't that busy. How is it possible no one saw anything?" He looked at me and I tilted my head slightly. He sounded more desperate than usual. "Sir, people are usually not that attentive." He huffed a laugh.

"Forensics are done down here?" He asked and moved his hands to put a pair of rubber gloves on he had carried in the pocket of his coat. "Yes, Sir. They are upstairs now."  
Lestrade picked the mobile phone up, carefully examining it and finally browsing through the messages.  
"Make a note, Skip, there are no messages on his mobile phone." I wrote it done and frowned. "I'd prefer it if you wouldn't call me that." He knew it and grinned at me. "Sarge?" I made a noise of faked indignation. "Why is that striking you, Sir, the lack of messages?"  
Lestrade made a vague gesture around. "Family man, wife, two children. They would have constantly exchanged messages. Bring this or that from the shopping. I'm on my way home… et cetera. Together with him running that business? Something's off, if you ask me. He was either paranoid about his privacy, has a second phone somewhere or…" he looked at me "something scared him."

I had however been wrong about Mrs. Knell. Her silence still lasted till we had driven her to the hospital. I stayed by her side but didn't talk too much. What is there to say to someone who just lost the floor under their feet and found themselves in a state of a permanent falling?  
Her parents would take care of her, would call in case she would start to speak about what happened. It made me feel nervous. The more time passed, the less reliable her memory would be. Together with the shock it was not very likely she would provide us with a lead.  
Two hours after Mr. Knell had been confirmed dead from a fatal wound to the head caused by a .22 gun, Lestrade had me convene the team that would be in charge of the investigation.

I had to hurry to get everything ready in time, as little as it still was.  
Lestrade usually let me lead through those meetings. At first I felt annoyed. I had the work and had to keep everything together and fix papers and reports in time and he just sat back and couldn't even been bothered to beacon them through the first steps. Later I realised that he was silently teaching me how to do this. We spoke beforehand and he put it in my hands to let me learn by doing it.  
He put trust and confidence in me and my skills and hopefully I haven't ever disppointed him.

"This is Mr. Alistair Knell. He got shot earlier this day on the threshold to his own home situated at 124 Weston St, London. He leaves a wife and two children behind."  
I showed them a picture of Mr. Knell, - a larger copy of a passport picture from about a year ago - letting it sink in why we were doing this, why they had to rush through their lunch breaks and gather in the cramped conference room. I stuck the picture at the wall. From there I was going to lead them through the case by using pictures of witnesses and from the crime scene.  
I pointed the lack of messages out, spoke about the CCTV footages from the junction near the house. We already had been thorough but it didn't feel like we'd been thorough enough.


	5. 5: Lestrade

I already knew the facts so I could spent the time it took Donovan to present the case to them watching my colleagues, observing them.  
That is the thing when you work together with Sherlock Holmes for a while. You start to see your world differently, start to question every tiny detail. The stain on DS Gunby's shirt collar? Could be jam, could be lipstick. Sherlock would be able to tell.  
I had to get myself out of this mindset quickly again before it would have driven me insane. He was better than me, knew more, saw more in those details I haven't barely noticed before.  
It is one thing to notice the stain but a whole different matter to interpret it the right way and present the right facts.

They started to juggle theories. Sherlock would be repelled. Never theorise before… et cetera, et cetera. "Listen guys, I know you are eager to get things done, but can we stick to the facts for a second longer, please?" It was the first time I raised my voice during the meeting. I knew that communication is vital but I didn't want to give Donovan the feeling of her being my doormat. She did a good job with this case and she has potential to reach far.

They looked at me. "DS Donovan was so kind to already mention the CCTV footages. Furthermore I want to have a /well covered/ background check on Mr. and Mrs. Knell. Phone records are prior at the moment since they are the only door we can get a foot into." I paused to let them gain some time for any form of objections.  
I liked how things like that came to life; everyone working on one tiny piece of the entire image and we would put it together in the end, draw a map and finally have the route from start to finish line. From offence to offender.

The team was well picked and it took them just around an hour to get first results. It wasn't difficult to obtain the information about Knell's messages and calls history. One number stood out. I allowed myself to hope for a knocking-off time by schedule.  
I knew what they were doing now. Stripping down Alistair Knell. After all these years in the job it still felt like invading a life to an extend that wouldn't have been possible if the victim was still alive. Secrets would be revealed. Often just tiny, almost mundane ones like an addiction to collecting plush animals, to wear only red underwear, loveletters and porn, the love affair at the workplace. Hardly anything could shock us anymore.

Alistair wasn't an exception. By late afternoon I found myself in a room with an attractive woman just a little over 24. She was sobbing as soon as the news was broke to her. Donovan and I let her cry, drawing our conclusions from her reaction. After a while you get weary of it. The tears, the sobbing, the ever repeated question 'why'. It was difficult to not get impatient and too distant from it. There was a victim after all, a life that had been ended in a violent way from one moment to the other and the person in front of you just got to know of this fact.

"My god. I can't believe it. I saw him last week and now he is gone." I exchanged a look with Donovan. There went a suspect and from that moment on she became a witness.  
"Ms. Culver, did you notice any changes in Mr. Knell's behaviour? Did he mention any kind of problems?" I asked gently and she blinked at Donovan. "It's Mrs, actually." We got a witness and we got a new suspect. 


	6. 6: Donovan

Love. Always one of the strongest motifs. We would need to take her husband in for questioning. Mrs. Culver confessed her affair with her superior, Alistair Knell. Sometimes I wish that there would be something new to it, but most cases usually stuck to the average. We seldom got surprises and I wondered from time to time if that wasn't the reason for so many coppers to throw in the towel and demand to be relocated or quit completely. In the end this was just a job only with more unusual aspects.

I knew Lestrade had thought about quitting. More than once but it would have been a shame to lose someone like him.

Mrs. Culver also told us about a handful of phonecalls that had her boss left in restlessness afterwards. She just put them through to his office but was able to recall a name: Uirlis.

I wrote it down. Something rang a bell but I wasn't able to put a finger on it. That wasn't just a name and I had heard the word before. Probably related to another case.

"So you had an affair with Mr. Knell? Do you know if his wife knew about it?" Lestrade asked. For a second I felt uncomfortable. I knew he wouldn't let his mind wander right now, but he had his resentiments towards the affair I had with Dr. Anderson.

I can't blame him after what rumours I heard about the reasons for his divorce. Police lots' fate.

"God no! I had to tell my husband though." Now she looked guilty and I wondered what was wrong with me that I never regretted my own fling. Lestrade looked at me again. Mr. Culver became more and more interesting.

As I said, love was always one of the strongest motivators to do incredibly stupid things. I quietly left the room to run a first background check on the Culvers and to get his number.

The conversation was brief and he was not very happy about the topic. He would be around the next morning at eight. Little could I know that all plans would have to be cancelled by 6:30 the next morning.

"Sergeant Donovan?" It was DS Gunby. I learned a long while ago that it was useless to correct them. They'd always give you just half of your title, if you are called by a proper title at all. Often it was just my last name as if I was still a Constable, more often it was "Ma'am" or even "Ms."

"Yes, Detective Sergeant?" I asked back, well aware that I must have sounded a little acrid. At least he seemed to have respect. He looked a tiny bit afraid.

"Mrs. Knell made a statement. Just a few bits here and there but her mother gave us a call and passed it on. Apparently there had been an envelope. She assumed it was a delivery for her husband since the messenger guy asked for him by full name."

"But...there wasn't an envelope at the scene." I remarked and he just shrugged and dropped the transcript of the phoncall on my desk.

Uirlis. Envelope. Love affairs, half hidden.

It started to smell of something nasty and very rotten.


	7. 7: Lestrade

Alarm clock? I felt drowsy when the sound woke me from a strange dream. I had no idea what time it was and after two seconds I came to realise that it hadn't been the alarm clock that woke me up but the mobile phone on the nightstand.  
I was used to calls at all odd hours but it hadn't occurred in quite a while. I answered the phone, my voice still hoarse and heavy from sleep.  
It was Donovan. She didn't sound any better but I presumed she had at least a ten minutes headstart. "What time is it?" I asked her. "It's now 6:23, Sir." I nodded and listened to the silence at the other end of the line. Then I realised she couldn't see me. "Er… why are you calling me half an hour before my alarm clock goes off?"

At 7 I already stood shivering at the bank of the river and overlooked the slow fading night. It was foggy and overall comfortless. I regretted that I didn't take the time to have at least one coffee.  
"She has been found an hour ago by some…" Donovan hesitated, apparently thinking of a word to put it nicely. "drunkards." She looked tired and perished. I nodded in response. Nothing out of the ordinary so far. "Right. Shall we?" She surely had already a first glance at the body but she was polite enough to not announce it.

Forensics had already been diligent and were waiting in the background to put their tent over the body. Donovan gave me some space, fell a few steps behind and started a conversation with one of the Constables. I could hear their lowered voices while I examined the dead woman to my feet.  
Water corpses were always the worst. Their faces - depending on the amount of time they had spent in the water - hardly recognisable anymore, bloated and waxen of blue-ish colour. They looked like frogs that got trapped in ice during the winter and popped onto the surface of the lake once the ice melted. Their empty eyes bulging out, not resembling anything "human" anymore. And then the smell…

I didn't recognise her at first. The individuality of her features got too replaced by the mask of death and the abidance in a watery grave for too many hours. It were her clothes I eventually recognised. The jeans, now tightly fitting around her calves and thighs, one sock went missing but never would I forget the remarkable fact that they had been neon yellow and green hooped, which was a fact that got stuck in my subconsciousness when I first saw her.  
Her shirt had been white once with the embroidery of a kitten playing with a ball of wool. I couldn't see the kitten but I knew it was there and once they'd have turned the body over they would see it, as well.

I felt ice cold from the inside as if someone impelled an icicle through my core and all I could feel was hoarfrost.  
The woman from the car boot. The woman Milverton had made me drive through the streets of London when he enforced this lunatic contract between us. He had lulled me into this false feeling of a fallacious truce. I thought I was nothing more than his chauffeur. He let me drive endless hours without any aim, just street after street after street.

It was on the last of this "tours" for him when I found her in the car boot; when I made this promise to get her out of there. The words even in memory becoming ashen and bitter in my mouth.

I had pushed her aside. Entirely. Back to a dark corner of my mind where she couldn't get out of if I didn't want her to. I didn't even have a name. She had been gagged and I didn't ask.  
She remained a nameless victim. In life, in death.  
"Greg!" Donovan's strident voice brought me back to the present. Away from the shadows of a past that was just a few months old and into the forlorn present and the company of a dead, nameless woman that impersonated my guilt. Ugly and bloated and bare of anything that had once been manlike, humane even.

Donovan never called me by my first name when we were out in the field.  
I casted my eyes off the victim to my feet and looked at her. She was frowning and I could see worry in her eyes. She knew.  
She didn't reach her position for her nice looks and the ability to run in high heels if she needed to when she just got out of a press conference she so confidently wielded every time just a minute prior.  
She knew something was off.

"Sir?" she automatically switched back to the official appellation. I cleared my throat to buy some time. It felt as if my mind was filled with cotton.  
"It is just… " I trailed off. "Do we have a name already?" I asked instead and Donovan shook her head, allowing me to change the subject so abruptly. For now.  
"No, Sir. I had the Yard called and they are already in the missing persons database, but that will take a while. It may be wise to get the press involved?"

Everything but this!, I thought and stared at Donovan for longer than it would have been decent. "Yeah, that… would be wise, I assume." She eyed me and I could feel her doubts brushing over my clothes and my face with every second she watched me.  
"I'll arrange everything, Sir."

I wanted to stop her, call her back when she walked away. I wanted to cancel it, but I simply couldn't. Still too much a copper to act against it. But dirty I was. Dirty I became those few months ago and now it hit me with the entire heaviness of this realisation.  
I had become a dirty copper and that was a fact I would never be able to redeem again.


	8. 8: Reprise - The woman in the car boot

London passes by. I know that it changes. Sometimes slowly, sometimes so fast.  
The last few days it seemed to be me who changed and not the city around me.  
My view at it is different. Milverton makes me see the darkness where there had always been grey or nothing of interest before in my eyes.

I'm his driver. He makes me stop in front of houses and never gives a reason why. He observes and I know that he is aware that I observe him while he sees hints and evidences, stories and fates he created or gave an unwanted twist to in the fronts of those houses. His faint, satisfied smile sickens me.

I can never tell when he had enough. His orders are short, narrowed down to just the few words he needs me to know. He never gives away too many information.  
I know that he plays with me. His game of power and control. I can feel my tension and awareness leaving me the more I get too used and too comfortable with this role.

I was prepared to refuse murder and torture. I would have been able to stand my ground against cutting fingers of hostages or sending kidneys with the post to names I may have heard of before.  
I was prepared for cruelty and terror. I wasn't for this. Being lulled into this false sense of security.

This can't be it. This isn't why he wanted me away from my family and my friends. There will be something else and it is just a matter of time.  
I don't allow myself to think of them too often. Sarah and her baby, Anthea - my Guardian Angel, Sherlock and always Molly and Amelia.

London passes by. Unmoved but changing. The ever awake, the ever watching beast.

***

It was early when I got woken up by a shake of my shoulder. Over the past days it had always been a different face that greeted me in the morning. I was usually awake when they stepped into the room. The world outside was still dark, even by the time I finished with getting dressed and having the two cups of coffee for breakfast. Old habits die hard.

Everyone in this house was so secretive and more than once did I wish I was able to read people like Sherlock always does. Their actual profession by their thumb or the way they'd hold a cup, their entire lifestories by the way they tie their shoes. But this was beyond me and I could only observe but remain in the dark about everything else. It was like having all the ingridients for a meal at hand, but not a clue about the units and the temperature.

It was another driving job. I started to wonder why he insisted on having me around when all I did was driving him aimlessly through the streets of London. This morning he just said. "Drive." as an order for me before he unfolded the newspaper and scanned the pages with his carbon like dark and cold eyes.

London rose slowly from a night that had been restless. London's nights are always restless. The rooftops of the other cars were covered with a thin layer of ice. The night has been cold and I wondered if Amelia and Molly had been freezing, but pushed the thought away as fast it came.  
I felt his eyes on the back of my head, drilling into my skull. 'No' I thought, 'you can try as hard as you like, you won't read my mind. You are not going to take this away from me.'  
And I buried Molly and Amelia, Sarah, Anthea and Sherlock deep inside my heart. Unreachable for him.  
The fool I was.

When he had enough of a slowly waking up city, of the red, orange and grey striped sky, of the darkness under bridges and in tunnels, he gave me another order. An address.  
There was nothing unusual about it. A housenumber, a street name.  
When Milverton ordered me to a certain address before, I tried to memorise it. I tried to memorise all the numbers and names. I knew that I'd mess them up, but when I have a name, I may be able to recall the house when I see it again. I forgot about the numbers and tried to memorise the streetnames; put them away in a corner of my mind.  
I failed.

He reminded me that I was under his "order and protection" and I could only nod. I understood, but I didn't like it or agreed. Milverton vanished into a house. Ordinary, calm. I learnt during my time spent as a cop that most houses do and behind most doors lurks a horror no one would have been able to think of until confronted with it.  
I waited and observed.  
Milverton was soon joined by two people from a car that had parked opposite and up to the moment they got out absolutely slipped my attention.

I checked my watch, as always it made me think of Anthea, who gave it to me as a present. Was it really only a little over a year ago?  
Ten minutes later, they all appeared again. No one bothered to close the door behind them. It stood wide opened and they dragged a bag along. I couldn't help myself and had to ask my interim boss. "What's this?"  
"A consignment."  
Typical for him. Never waste words when you can narrow it down to a single bit of information that can cover and hide the entire rest and still doesn't make him a liar. There is always a 'but'.  
He stated another address as soon as the bag was stored in the boot. "Okay and what is in the bag?" He gave me a long look via the rear-vision mirror. "No questions, Lestrade. You wouldn't get answers anyway. They are not subject- matter of this arrangement."

I knew I wouldn't get my answers this way. I had to wait.  
For the right moment.

It came when Milverton left for whatever reason. He let me wait again. Of course. I was used to it by now, but this time my curiosity had been picked and I didn't hesitate to open the boot of the car. There was no reason to do so. Whatever awaited me would be revealed sooner or later. Dramatic pauses before unzipping a bag were reserved for Hollywood actresses and BBC crime investigators.

I wasn't prepared for it.  
I wasn't prepared to find a woman in that bag. She was conscious and close to panic.  
"Listen, I'm a police officer. Okay? Do you understand?" She could only nod, the gag making it impossible for her to speak. "I will get you out of here. Just stay strong and calm for a little longer. Can you do that for me? I know it is not easy, but I'm on your side." She nodded again and I closed the bag again but left it open enough for her to get fresh air and to be able to see.  
It hurt to know she was there in the darkness and the precariousness of what was going to happen next. I made it back behind the wheel just in time.  
Milverton smiled and in this second I knew that he knew. He was able to read me like an open book.

It was the last time I saw the woman. The image of her face, the panic in her eyes and the look she gave me when I gave her hope will forever haunt me.  
Milverton knew it.  
He tied my hands once more; made me be a part of something I would have never agreed to willingly but I agreed to make this bargain and this is my sin.  
I have no idea how he did it. How he managed it to let her vanish from the boot within five minutes that I needed to make a call from a public phone. She was gone and I had no clue, no lead whereto or who she was.  
Once more did I wish I had at least a fractional part of Sherlock's skills. I could have kept my promise.

Milverton let me go after this last tour. He got what he wanted. I got what I never wanted but probably deserved.

Doubts.  
Once more.

And I returned to my family to Molly and Amelia; to my friends with the bitter taste of defeat, of having betrayed not only them but their trust in me.


	9. 9: Donovan

We were tired when we left the embankment of the Thames, we had been tired when we counted the hours on the clock while the net tightened. I didn't dare to approach my superior just yet. Over the years we already worked together I observed that it was often if not always him who made a first step. Just in his time.  
There were maybe a handful of occasions when I acted against it. The last one led to the fall and obloquy of one of the most astute and rude men I ever got to meet. It took Lestrade and me hours of talking and discussing, hours filled with hurt, accusations, distress and yet trust and understanding on both sides.

I knew something was off and it had to do with "Jane Doe of the river". I saw the expression on his face. He knew more than he was willing to admit or even share and I knew that he knew that we would have to talk about it. In the meantime I pondered over this name we came across in Alistair Knell's case.  
Uirlis. "I heard it before… where…?" I wasn't aware that I had muttered to myself when I attracted the attention of one of the Constables. "Ma'am?"  
I felt the instant need to harm him. "This … name or word here." But what good was there in hurting handsome young men if they didn't request it beforehand.

"That's Irish, I believe." he said and I raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure?" He nodded. "Yes, Ma'am. Me grandma was from the island and taught us a bit of it." He definitely made me curious and I felt that this was a tiny further step. "Do you happen to know what it means?" He shook his head. "Nah, sorry, Ma'am." I sighed. "It is Detective Sergeant. Thank you for your help." He blushed slightly - at least - and left me be with my new lead.  
I called Garda Siochana, the Irish police.

"Sir?" I had carefully opened the door to Lestrade's office. Usually I just bursted in. His mood had affected me and I took the quieter path. "What is it, Donovan?" he asked and nodded for me to step inside.  
"This name Mrs. Culver gave us… Uirlis. You remember?" He nodded and waited for me to go on. "Well, it is not actually a name. I called Garda Siochana but they don't have any records of a male by this last name but they could offer me a translation."  
"So what does this Uirilything mean?" Lestrade asked and I couldn't resist to correct him and also smile slightly upon the mistake. He always struggled with names. "It is pronounced 'ear-lish', Sir, and it means 'tool'." He looked up at me, his interest immediately sparked. "Hitman?"

I sat down opposite without him telling me to do so. "Unlikely. Why would he call Knell in the office beforehand? Why the threats when his purpose was to kill the man anyway? I also don't believe that the actual gunman is the same as 'Uirlis'. I think we came upon something that goes far deeper and reaches far wider than we could estimate by now."  
"You may be right, I'm afraid. Does our phantom have a name already?" I shook my head, getting that he needed something more "meaty" to consider any further steps. "Same goes to the woman from the river." I added and watched his reaction carefully. He tensed.  
"The press conference will be held in about an hour."

The press was not overly interested in the case. Dead body from the river? No name? Not really front page material.  
Lestrade however was nervous. He never liked press conferences but this was a new level of not being comfortable. He let me lead, as usual but stayed calmer and gave only very short answers. I guessed, the journalists didn't see a difference. I got my confirmation that something was not right. I would get evidence later.

Lestrade had just left when I received the results from forensics. On a first glance there wasn't anything too unusual about it, aside the note "Persons excluded: DI Lestrade".  
As hard as we try sometime we leave traces and they must have assumed it was the case this time although Lestrade had never contaminated a crime scene in any way since I was able to recall it. He had always been a very thorough police officer. Too thorough for his own good, it crossed my mind.

"We need to talk. - SD" I texted him.  
He replied with a time and his private address.  
He already knew.


	10. 10: Lestrade

She was late but I had no doubt she would show up and the doorbell ringing was my proof. One time, briefly. She knew about my family and couldn't know Molly was away to meet with a friend and that she took Amelia with herself. The flat looked and felt deserted and I realised how used I got to the everyday noises that surrounded me here.  
I let her in. "Greg." Sally Donovan said and nodded. I answered by calling her by her first name and stepping aside to let her inside. I couldn't remember if she had visited us here before. I knew she had paid me one or two visits when I lived alone after the divorce from my ex-wife.  
"You are late, Sally." She smiled a little. "I'm sorry. I kind of…" her hesitation was obvious. "met someone on the tube on the way here. A nice place you have." I didn't object to the change of topic and offered her something to drink.

While I prepared coffee she had a look around. I never saw a copper who wouldn't inspect a flat he saw for the first time but all of them managed it to keep their hands off any drawers no matter how great the urge was to open them and go through the content. She picked one of Amelia's plush animals up on her way to the kitchen. "How old is she now? Your daughter?"  
She wanted to give me a gentle beginning. "Ten months." I replied and picked the coffee mugs up and approached her. She scrutinized me as if she wanted to find an answer by observing me only. I couldn't put a finger on it, but there was something in her eyes that made me feel uneasy.

"Please, take a seat." I put the mugs down on the kitchen table and Sally sat down on the chair I usually claim to be 'mine'. The back to the wall, facing the open space of the room. She really was a good copper. Already taken to the typical police officer foibles.  
It was quiet for a moment while she searched for the right words and I dreaded the moment she would find them. The fridge hummed in the background and I could hear Mr Cat jumping down from one of the bookshelves. Maybe he was heading upstairs to occupy my pillow again or he'd have a look at the kitchen, wondering who the stranger was. I would never get to know. Sally found her words. She didn't ask. Not a single question. She stated facts.

"This is the report from the morgue. It came in earlier shortly after you left." She put a folder on the table, opened the lid, turned it around and shoved it towards me. I saw the picture of the woman from the river and started reading: Evelyn Moore. My burden and my guilt got a name now.  
Sally gave me time to read the report. Two times, three times. "I don't understand…" I said in a feeble attempt to keep the false image intact.  
"Oh, I'm sure you do." She said and watched me. "Okay. What do you want to hear?" I eventually said, unnerved by her glance resting on me. "I want you to listen." she answered and took a sip from her coffee.

"Evelyn Moore had been stalked for a while, reported it two times to the police but whenever they looked into it, it stopped. She had a brother working for the same company as some certain Alistair Knell. She never met Mr Knell. That is confirmed."  
I was wondering where she got all this from but didn't dare to interrupt her.  
"You however met her." This time the icicle pierced my heart. "You left traces, Greg. You must have touched her." She gestured to her face, throat and shoulder.  
"I…" I began, struggling to find /any/ word to begin my explanation with. Sally gestured for me to stay silent and I obeyed her order. "You hadn't done so when you saw her at the riverside. The patter of where your fingerprints had been found? You tried to calm her down. It /must/ have happened earlier." She gestured again for me to stay silent and I was grateful for that. I wouldn't have found the right words, if any at all.

"This one week you had taken off in November? You must have met her then. " Sally paused and took another sip from her coffee before she started speaking again:  
"You were made a tool, Greg. Everyone gets made into a tool. Alistair Knell was one, as well. It was his task to abduct Evelyn Moore, but he refused. Twice." She looked at me and I saw pain in her features. It hurt her to state these facts and somehow it was a comfort for me. A terrible comfort.  
"Sally…"  
"No, listen. These cases are connected. This goes deeper and wider than any of us would have ever suspected." While she spoke and eventually fell silent again to finish her coffee I put a few other facts together. She had been unusually late. Being late was not typical for Sally Donovan. She had always been on time, had always made sure of it and if it was clear she couldn't make it due to circumstances that were out of her control, she called or texted. Not this time.  
She knew facts that she hadn't known yesterday or earlier today when I left the office. Many of them and with such a sureness that it was almost impossible for them to be wrong leads.  
What happened?

I watched her, this time it was me who scrutinized her and she frowned. What did she say? She met someone? I must have winced slightly when it finally dawned on me. Sally gave me a quizzical look.  
"What else have you got? What is the point?" I asked calmly, torn between my guilt and a growing anger about her betrayal for which I yet still needed confirmation. She I wanted her to be better than me. Someone had to be.

"The point is, that I want you to know that you are off the screen. I made sure of it. But we won't solve this case. Not Evelyn's and not Alistair's." That was the cost. I abandoned my mug.  
"Go on." I said and Sally Donovan unfolded the net, tore it apart, bit by bit, string by string, knot by knot.

Alistair Knell was an adulterer. He had an affair with his secretary Mrs Culver. She was one of his many weak spots. His pressure point. He also had seedy contacts to certain branches of London's underworld but remained a small-timer. This must have been the surroundings where 'Uirlis' made a first approach and from where everything in his life went fatally wrong. Sally kept those points vague, probably because she hadn't got any further information about it herself.  
Evelyn Moore was the sister of one of his coworkers and 'Uirlis' was what connected them all. Alistair, the delivery person, Mrs Culver, Evelyn, me … and now Sally Donovan.  
"Who provided the gun?" I asked and she gave me a name that rang a bell. Surely not unknown to us. "It was one of those foldable guns. Explains the calibre and why no one saw anything. The delivery guy just had to shove it into his pocket. No waving about with huge rifles." She sounded acrimoniously. "There is a lot that is not clear yet." I remarked and she smiled bitterly. "And it will stay like this. As I said, we won't solve those cases. Not officially."

The deeper you get yourself into it, I mused when Sally had left, the more it seemed less worth it and the tighter the fetters got. How was it possible for one man to play us all so well.  
Uirlis.  
A name that described all of us so very well. Under the bottom line none of us was better or wiser. We all got trapped. We all fell for our ideals and beliefs, for what we thought was our duty.  
I had asked her why. Why she did this, made this bargain.  
She had looked at me and said a single sentence: "Because I trust you." and I knew there was no lie in it.

I cleaned the mugs away, got rid of my cold coffee, ignored and abandoned hours ago; picked up the plush animal, made it sit on the sofa next to one of Molly's books. My fingers lingered on its soft fur. 'What have you done?' I asked myself and was not sure whom I was addressing.  
I knew the name of the other. The one who told her all this and who she sold part of her conviction to in order to help me, to keep me safe.  
Sally Donovan, you steadfast martyr.


	11. 11: Donovan

I was late and had to hurry. Luckily St. James's Park Station wasn't too far from the Yard and I managed it to squeeze into the carriage just before the doors closed. I wanted to make a detour home and fetch a few things before I'd pay my boss a visit.  
It wouldn't be an easy one and I had quite a lot of questions. The ride would take about half an hour but with recent works on the District Line one could never be too sure. My feet hurt and I was glad when I could sit down.

After a few years of having to take this route at least two times a day I learned not to be too picky with the seats, just don't pay too much attention to the person sitting next to you. I made that mistake a few times and got to know London's finest lunatics, who wouldn't stop talking.  
I closed my eyes and sighed.  
"Long day?" My neighbour next to me asked. 'Dear God, please, not today.' I thought and smiled politely. "You can say so." I hoped he would shut up now.  
"Must have been so with that corspe from the river." I was awake in a second. "Pardon?" I asked and looked at him. Average by all means.

"Saw it in the papers. Tragic, tragic." Something in his voice was putting me off and alarmed me at the same time. My feet were forgotten. "Did you know her?" I asked curiously and he smiled. A shiver ran down my spine. That wasn't a polite smile or even a sympathetic one. It was the smile of a predator. "Let me tell you a story, Sergeant Donovan." He said in a velvet tone and I felt a knot in my stomach. "I can't recall the papers stating my name." He shook his head. "Oh no, they didn't. Now be good and listen to my little story."  
The so well known surrounding of an ordinary carriage became like an underground den. A room full of tension and foreboding and I couldn't do anything else but listening to the stranger with his velvet voice, bringing down what I believed in, whom I looked up to and he made me decide in the end. And his tale began like this:

"My name is Charles Augustus Milverton.  
Sometimes, and this is my belief, someone who knows everything and has his hands tied firmly by nothing more than himself is serving my purpose better than any form of blunt threat or dull accusation. I make them accomplices against their wish and will.  
Their squirming and struggling and battling and fighting with and against themselves is my greatest reward.  
From time to time.

Your woman from the river has a name. Her name is Evelyn Moore. She lived a nice, happy life in a nice house with two nice children and a husband. They lived their lives just like Alistair Knell and his little happy family but like it always happens, everyone of them kept a secret.  
I like secrets, you must know Sergeant Donovan. Secrets…" he paused to taste the word like a sommelier. "Secrets are something so precious. And for me they are a," he made a gesture with his hand, self pleased like he'd own this city and everyone who ever lived in it, no matter if they were now dead like Alistair Knell and Evelyn Moore. "currency." He finished and let silence fall between us for a moment. I didn't look at him again.  
"Do you know who Alistair Knell really was? He was a small- timer. He tried to get his hands into some dirty business and I happened to give him some advice. But alas, he refused to pay my price."

He liked himself so much in this role. It made me feel angry. "Who is Uirlis?" I asked to make him stop bragging. He laughed lowly. "Ah, that one. You called the Irish police, didn't you? Sweet, little Sally Donovan." I wanted to gauge his eyes out. "It was just an appropriate name. He is not of interest. He is a messenger as you like. Just like your boss only that Lestrade never reached so high. He was just the chauffeur for a while." Now I looked up. "Oh yes. Didn't you know? He took a week off just to serve as my driver. We had a job to do and a package to deliver. One of the nasty little tasks someone else refused to do. Lestrade just couldn't keep his fingers off it. Now, Sergeant, do put this into context for me, will you?"

"He met her." I simply said, not being able to keep a certain tone of disappointment or even defeat out of my voice.  
"He drove her while she was trapped in the boot of the car. Took him long enough to figure it out. You should have heard him when he did. All those promises he made and never kept. I bet he is the same with you." The man leaned back, satisfied.  
"I've got a few more questions." I said and he clicked his tongue. "No Sergeant. I won't answer them. I'm just going to solve you your case."  
I felt weak in this moment and I hated it. It was one of those promises I made to myself. I would always stand strong and tall, no matter what. Up to now I had always kept it.

"The man who shot Alistair Knell is called Victor Krutikov. He owed me a favour and this was what I wanted in return. Alistair had been such a bad business partner. Always took and never paid back. You see how it goes."  
"You made his wife a widow and his children fatherless. You destroyed more than one life." I said and he leaned closer that I could feel his breath on my cheek. "Finally you show your anger. You must be boiling under this smooth surface of delicate skin." His voice was so low like the purr of a cat. "I told you, I'd close this case for you. Every whiff of mystery around it can be put aside in that pretty mind of yours. Or on your notebook rather likely. It is nothing else but this. A murder. Victor Krutikov shot Alistair Knell, who refused to abduct Evelyn Moore.

Evelyn Moore had to die because people are idiots. You should know better than me. Everything else can be considered a bonus for my own entertainment." He laughed lowly, again so pleased with himself. "You know that you won't be able to close these cases. Not without more than names and facts a stranger whispered into your ear. You know that I'm right, that I'm telling you the truth and still your hands are tied. As I said, someone who knows everything and has his hands tied firmly by nothing more than himself is serving my purpose better than anything else."

"One more thing." I demanded and I had to swallow hard against my dry mouth. "Who was your tool?" I looked at him, not shying away from his cold eyes and the steely glance. "Gunby." He said and in this moment I'd have loved to close my eyes and pray for the whole situation to be over. "I guess you won." I said and he got to his feet, touching my shoulder gently. "I know." He turned around before he left the train. His smile could have made hell freeze over. "This is my gift for you, Sergeant Donovan. Make of it what you wish." With that he was gone and I was left with solved cases that could never be solved.

While he was still speaking and explaining this tiny part of his network to me I already made the decision to protect whom I always believed in. It was a question of ethics and I decided against Evelyn and Alistair. Against their families and friends and I sold a tiny part of my utmost convictions to protect another man and his family.  
To serve and protect.  
I made a decision. I became part of his network, part of his plans and games but I would never cease to stand tall. I have to hold on to something. Someone.

May you be worth it, Gregory Lestrade.


End file.
